Coleoptera Beetles
by Vasiliki
Summary: Trowa-centric; it follows the relationship of Heero/Trowa up to ep 15. Warnings: yaoi lime. Nominated for Best Angst in the 2001 Nanashi contest.
1. Prologue

      **Coleoptera **

         By Vasiliki, Dec 00 & Jan 01. The version below: Mar 01.   
  
         Beta reader: Cassiopeia.   
  
         This story is dedicated to Stephanie. Special thanks to DaMoyre for liking it so much and to Cassiopeia for her enthusiastic feedback. =)   
  
  


        The big wooden wheels shrieked as the frenzied horses galloped faster and faster, foam pouring off their mouths. The circus wagon was trying to slalom its way through the explosions, bombs dropping and blackened craters opening all around it. The fire... Fire... everywhere.  
        "Mommy!" cried the small girl, as the woman's arms loosened around her and she found herself falling off the wagon. "Mommy!!!"  
        "CATHERINE!"  
        A panicked scream of a desperate mother, her eyes wide with horror locked with violet tearful ones for an eternity inside a moment, before they got lost among the fumes and the flames. A watery curtain came down veiling the little girl's world, her body hit the ground and she was enveloped in darkness.  
  
        The horses in amok bolted faster than the wheels could hold. The man on the driver's seat pulled with all his force at the reigns.  
        "Take the baby! I can't keep both the reigns and him!" he shouted at his wife, just before an explosion hit too close, jolting the wagon and making the man lose his hold on the infant. The mother's open arms extended towards the small body that flew through the air. Both parents screamed.   
        "My child! MY CHILD!" shouted the woman, but a rapidly approaching shrill sound covered her voice. The bomb fell and fire overwhelmed them.   
        The destroyed wagon toppled onto its side and kept burning. Black smoke rose and the nauseating smell of human flesh turning to coals filled the nostrils of the surviving infant who tried to crawl towards the remains. His green eyes reflected the red glow of the flames eating away at the wood, the horses, the corpses of his parents. The wind rose and the fire flared up. The heat wave caused him to creep back, yet his eyes remained fixed.   
  
        Not a single tear came to cool them. They had all dried in the swelter of his misery.  
  
  
        A few years later, a scrawny boy stood on a wide fallow field, gazing at dark starry heavens.   
        'Space...' he thought. 'The space must be better than being here.'  
        The twinkling stars shone down at him, cold and unyielding. Sudden wind bent the long grasses and tousled the child's bangs and caressed his dirty face.   
        'The coldness of space can put out the fires of my dreams', he thought.   
        Every night, the boy stood alone for a long time looking upwards at the immensity of cosmos, as the night breeze blew through the grass field, only it ever embracing the childish body.   
  
  
        "Can't you cry for slaughtering your comrades?" she reprimanded him.  
        "I used up all my tears as a baby", he deigned to reply.  
        "For how long will you keep up killing your own heart?" she shot back.  
        His darkened gaze bore at her.  
        "For as long as I live."  
        Two bullets hit the traitorous devices. The cross shattered and the shards held the green eye. He turned and left, leaving her crying his name, the absence of his name.  
        "I love you!" she had shouted and the tears in her voice resounded in his head.  
        The cross. Love. Names. Things that had numbed his soul. On one side there was himself and his captain, but on the other side there were the ones who raised him and the young species teacher was among them. The merciless boy was the only one who would come out alive. Again. Always. Hammered on the battlefield, ever composed, regretless.  
        "You aren't human", his captain had accused him.  
        "No", he had agreed. "I've always been only a soldier."   
  
        Even when he stopped listening to their dying voices and choking curses, years later, he would still taste her tears in his dreams. The tears of the sole survivor of those battles, the tears he couldn't shed.   
  



	2. Part I

  
  


        He was watching him.  
        A rattling sound echoed rhythmically in the dark room, as the deft fingertips of Heero Yuy stroked the computer keys. The spindly youth had his face turned to the unswept floor and his long bangs easily hid the fact that under his half-opened eyelids, his glance was set on the other boy. Heero's white shirt came to life in the darkness, reflecting the green glow of the screen. Its pale glimmer embraced Heero's beautiful face, turning it impeccable, offering him that unworldly beauty of the dim artificial lighting that finds all human faces on lonely nights in buses.  
        The Japanese pilot had finally found the information he'd been searching for, the data appearing on his screen, and he prepared to record it to diskette. A sudden stabbing pain to his left arm caused him to wince, and his numb fingers loosened their hold, letting the diskette fall to the floor. Trowa got up soundlessly and gathered it, his movements a continuous flow, like the diastole and systole of the mercury inside the glass case of a thermometer. He typed on the keyboard the necessary orders, while the sitting boy still held his own bandaged arm in a protective grip.  
        "Treat it carefully. Take care of yourself too", he advised and he received a curt nod as answer. He lightly touched his palm to Heero's shoulder and left it there for a while, his fingers slightly opened, soaking up the heat rising from the ropy muscles.  
  
  
        Trowa cared, cared a lot. He respected, valued and protected. He looked forward to the arrival of the night for the few precious moments it brought with it, moments that were used as his anchor, offering him the illusion of a meaning.   
        Both felt comfortable in the dark, friend and ally of all saboteurs, and silence was an old acquaintance of theirs. Many times, after the night had fallen, they didn't turn on the lights, but they sat close to each other, without touching, without talking. The willowy youth was listening to Heero's heartbeat and his soft rosary of inhaling and exhaling. Some nights he wondered where the Japanese boy's thoughts were centered during those moments, and some nights they made love. Trowa was never sure, afterwards, of which of them had first given the fuel, had extended the hand or had murmured a casual word. An invitation, a signal, that was sinking into the well of silence, leaving behind concentric circles that widened and faded under their wandering lips and their panting breaths.   
        Trowa had never kissed Heero lower than his firm belly. He liked giving and receiving, though it wasn't customary for them, but not with his mouth. After the first time his wish was refused, the shorter boy didn't ask again. There existed white nights for the pilot of HeavyArms, nights when he would lay on his side and look at Heero, watching for a change in his pattern of sleep, an indication that something was wrong, that the wound on his arm wasn't healing properly or it was doing so causing too much pain. Sometimes his parched fingers would swing inches above Heero's skin, following the awkward curves and the unripe angles of his body, but never touching. He stroked with shadow, and in shadow.  
        Trowa seemed without a past, he never reflected on it, he never questioned Heero about his experiences, or the people who had brought him up. Once, in a dirty hotel room, the Japanese soldier had broken the chaos of their serenity and mentioned a yellow flower and a dead puppy. Trowa looked at him with undecipherable eyes and then bent close and their lips brushed.  
        "I don't question pasts", he said quietly and went silent, but his desolate heart divined deeper. 'Because whatever that past consisted of, it's gotten you this far, it's made you who you are and somehow, I'm in love with the present.'   
  
        But the black-haired boy kept thinking of redemption. Of the colonies. And of peace.  
  
        * * *  
  
        In Marseilles, Heero had offered her his gun and she had taken it. She pointed it on him, her hands trembling.   
        He watched their exchange from where he sat in the truck.   
        "What he does is always perfect. Something I'll never be", he said aloud to himself and he felt his blood boil.   
  
        That night, Trowa took Heero dry. It was wild and brief. Afterwards, he hovered for a moment above him, stare always fixed at the pillow. He rolled on his left side facing the wall, eyes open, his pulse throbbing in his temples, his soul numb. Their heavy breathing was the only sound that broke the silence. Heero's undamaged hand moved and for a while Trowa listened to him as the injured boy tried to release himself.  
        He turned and kneeled beside him, his harsh fingers encircling Heero's and gently unhooking them away. He still couldn't bear to look at him. The other boy's manhood was burning Trowa's callused palm. After a moment of imperceptible hesitation, he bent forward and lightly licked its side. Heero jolted, but he managed to sit on his elbows and grabbing the chestnut-haired youth by the shoulder, he kept him off.  
        "Don't!" he said through clenched teeth, his shallow breath shattered, and those were the first words they spoke since he had exited the cemetery.  
        Trowa could feel Heero's inhuman control over his needy body through the strength of his grip, the other's sinewy fingers digging in his skin. His chest was heavy with shame, and self-loathing was new to him. However, this was a battle he wouldn't lose. In a fluid motion, he straddled the shorter boy.  
        With the minimum stimulation from the touch of hot flesh on naked flesh, it had been finished. When he moved to get off of the Japanese pilot, Heero wove his arms around his waist and drew him close, their sweated chests touching.  
        "Why?" he whispered.  
        Trowa's left ear was above the other soldier's heart. He opened his mouth and inhaled deeply. He found that he couldn't speak, a lump that suddenly appeared in his throat causing him pain.  
        "Perfection doesn't need anyone."  
        He wondered, as he listened to the calm voice replying, and then he realized it was his own.  
  
        The pilot of Wing Gundam didn't deny his words, neither did he offer false hopes. The honesty of emotions that characterized Heero was one of the most precious things that Trowa loved about him, yet that wasn't any consolation. Trowa slept with his long arms enfolded on his chest and his palms pressed against the wall. He dreamed of the cemetery, himself in the place of Sylvia Noventa, his finger on the trigger of Heero's gun, their eyes locked, the sun from above bathing them in a white light.   
        'I need you to need me', he said and Heero tilted his head and smiled to him with bright eyes.  
        'I do. It's my only imperfection', he confessed and as he turned to leave, he beamed at Trowa, offering his hand and waiting.  
        The pilot of HeavyArms noticed that the gun disappeared, even though he didn't drop it, and his long fingers took Heero's hand, while at the same time his dreaming mind watched the scene from a distance. Only from the clothes and the hair he was able to recognize himself in the smiling youth.  
  
        He awoke against the cold wall, surprised to find his cheeks wet. He dried them using the rugged sheet and turned on his right side. Heero was watching him, his face always the same, his lips without a trace of a smile which had never been present. No-one spoke. They kept on looking at each other for some time. It felt surreal, like another dream. At length, Trowa's heavy eyelids closed and he drifted on bad sleep once more.  
  
  
        Heero handed the gun to another ten people after Sylvia Noventa. His thoughts never distracted with the one who escorted him on death's doorstep. He didn't say goodbye not once in all eleven times. He would step out of the truck, without ever turning his face to meet darkened green eyes. He was obsessed with his quest for expiation and atonement, and Trowa's blind heart was thirsty of him, the only pharos in his life, even though his conscious remained always shut down.   
  



	3. Part II

  
  


        He erased the last name from the notepad, his heart singing and sinking at the same time. Heero was alive and Trowa's self-appointed mission to convoy him all around the globe, searching for the ones who held the right to pass judgement on him, was over. Would it be separate ways from then on? Change was hanging in the air and the lithe soldier could almost scent it.  
  
        They started descending the hill, the Mediterranean beauty of the landscape comforting their eyes, if not their troubled hearts. The sun, set high on the unclouded sky, was warm on their faces and Trowa was glad for his hair that allowed at least one of his eyes to remain in shadow.  
        The road was circling the hill. The asphalt under the soles of their shoes was slowly becoming heated and they were absently kicking small pebbles that had fallen on it from the rock-side. Heero was looking straight ahead, but the taller pilot was stealing glimpses around them… the scissors-shaped tail of swallows ripping the air hunting insects, the shy bent heads of poppies beyond the asphalt borders, the fresh greenness contrasting the red, the yellow, the white of spring flowers.  
        There was a car moving slowly behind them, yet there was only one road towards the town and maybe the driver lingered in order to enjoy the scenery. They ignored it, but didn't dismiss it. The estate was already long hidden from the curves of the country road. Trowa slit his eyelids against the white-golden brilliance of the blue sea, reflecting the melting sun. In the periphery of his vision, he caught a movement on the ground and with the second look, he stopped. He sat on his heels and watched the glossy creature.  
        When he realized that the lanky youth fell behind for more time than usual, Heero paused and turned his head. He studied Trowa's inclined position for a moment and then walked back towards him. Without a word, his piercing gaze tracked down the object that held the other pilot's attention. It was a large beetle, moving slowly among the verdure and glistening red and mauve and silver, its slim bullet-shaped body like a lost jewel dropped on the soil.  
        "It's a bug", Heero stated after a while.  
        "It's a Coleoptero of the family of Buprestidae", determined Trowa, softly taking it and letting it crawl on the back of his hand.  
        Heero wondered if that was irritation in the other's voice.  
        "It remains a bug."  
        "That word is also used for cockroaches."  
        'Annoyed.' confirmed the pilot of Wing, seeing a fleeting hint of emotion show on Trowa's face. The polished beetle was now crawling up his dark blue pullover with difficulty, its legs coughing on the wool fibers.  
        "Hn", was the only sound he uttered and turned back to the road.  
         Willowy fingers tugged at his white sleeve, stopping him. He studied the bent boy that was looking up at him. The sun was warming flexible limbs, scented breeze stroking the small hair at the end of a long neck and tousling the unusual haircut hiding one of his eyes, a liability for a pilot, a hideout for a soldier. Smoldering eyes that were green, too green. Heero was suddenly and inexplicably unsettled. They should move on, not lazing pointlessly around. The shiny black limousine passed them by and continued.  
        'A worry less', he thought.  
        "It's a childhood memory", Trowa's serene voice said, indicating the small creature.  
        Heero felt that he didn't want to learn, but Trowa rarely needed to talk, so he listened.  
        "I met someone once. I was a boy. He was too kind for a mercenary. I used to think that he wouldn't last long."  
        Trowa had placed the living gem on his open palm and was looking at it. The sun and the heat and all that white and brilliance were turning the Japanese boy dizzy. There was a surreality to the present, as if the time had shifted. It seemed to him that the voice he was listening to was drifting away -or was it reaching him from afar?  
        'Are you lost, nii-san?', a haunting image of a small smiling face under a wide-brimmed hat started him. He shook his head wildly and the short black bangs danced around his brow. He tried to concentrate on Trowa's words.  
        "…intrigued by nature. He spent time with me, teaching me the names of plant and animal species. He sought that more than the others' company. He had been a student, never told me why he left it all to join the troop." Trowa reflected for a moment. "He was too kind to last", he repeated.  
        Heero remained silent. He wanted to urge Trowa to hurry with his story, but something held him back. A fingertip now gently touching the upper part of the beetle, the quiet voice continued.  
        "I was calling them bugs. He taught me the scientific name. It's very old. Coleoptera means 'case for the wings'. The hard colored wings we see protect the diaphanous ones underneath. One day we fell upon this same species, it's a fairly common one on Earth, but very rare on Colonies. He was excited. He told me he would give me a gift of knowledge. He told me that I should learn from nature and make my heart like them, in order to survive. Hard outside in order to protect the fragile underneath. It was a useful gift."  
        Heero didn't ask needless questions, the living answer was right in front of him. Trowa raised his head and gazed at the cultivated plain below, then to the distant alighted sea. He let the polychromous beetle go and stood up.  
        "When I met you, I saw one who also knew the ways of nature", he said emotionless, his gaze still away and inward.  
        A pang of something alien in the Japanese boy's stomach. He ignored it. Trowa turned to get back to the road. Their eyes met. The green ones were now dull, emptied from life.  
        "What happened to your species teacher?" Heero asked.  
        Trowa passed him by without an answer. The beetle suddenly appeared under his raised gray short boot, but with a swift elegant movement, he avoided stepping on it.  
        "Its hard wings aren't useful against a stronger enemy", Heero pointed out and followed the acrobat on the asphalt.  
        The tall youth's open stride tarried and his back, covered with the blue turtleneck that hid powerful muscles, the feel of which Heero still had under his fingers, stiffened slightly. Then Trowa resumed his pace and spoke calmly as ever.  
        "He became an enemy. I killed him."  
        And after a while, when Heero didn't expect other words from him anymore, he spoke as if he was finishing aloud a thought.  
        "He wouldn't follow his own lessons. He was too kind."  
  
        Heero fell back a step and the sour fragrance of citrus trees, mixed with the saltiness of his sweat, made him close his eyes and inhale. He turned his face towards the warmth that pressed on the skin of his cheeks, his white, slightly unbuttoned shirt reflecting off the rays of the ripe sun. When at last he opened his over-heated eyelids, he glimpsed for a single moment thousands of brilliant Coleoptera flying around him, sparkling and glimmering, sprinkled with crystal chips, the sunlight that reached him through their veined transparent wings, bathing him in tinsels of rainbows.  
  
        * * *  
  
        They arrived at the busy town without any hostile meetings. Nonetheless, upon entering the market, the black car that had followed them on the hill appeared behind them again, assuring them that it was no coincidence. Heero turned around decidedly, ready to fight.  
        "Wait, you're still injured! You leave and I'll take them out", the spindly youth ordered, spotting a red motorcycle nearby.  
        "Trowa!"  
        The surprised murmur stabbed Trowa through the heart, but, as always, he showed nothing. Heero left, hidden in the back of a fruit seller's truck, and the circus clown prepared to face their enemies alone.  
  
        The hunt was brief. It came abruptly to an end when Trowa let the stolen motorcycle dive into the sea and the car crashed upon a wooden column. While his body performed turns in the air, like an Olympic diver aiming at the pool's water -only he flew upwards, defying gravity-, he saw the world whirling around and below him and his eyes caught the reflection of the sun-rays on the bluest sea's surface, blinding him momentarily. And in that moment of white blindness, with his world literally turned upside down, the axis of his being was shifted, while his vision was filled with Prussian blue that came rushing in to replace the absence of images and colors. In that single moment, realization bloomed, his mind learnt what his heart knew already and he accepted living.  
        In the outside world, his body began its inevitable fall, not able to ignore gravity any longer, and Trowa heard a female voice shouting: "The ones who love you will cry for you!", and he saw her tear-sparkling eyes facing him. His sight returned and he flipped his body to the correct position just before his feet touched the wire. He tucked his hands in his pockets and walked off, avoiding the clothes that hung to dry under the warm sun, balancing himself with the counter-weight of his revelation, the truth of the inevitability of love.  
  
        When he met again with Heero in the darkened alley, he knew that it didn't matter if he was loved in return or not. Time would soothe away the pain and obscure the numbing details of memory. Catching with an easy deft movement the apple which the Japanese pilot threw to him, he stated that they had to move on.  
  
        Heero agreed, but while they were discussing the details of how to transport HeavyArms, a woman appeared. The chestnut-haired youth had let the red fruit fall, drawn his gun and aimed it at the enemy, all in a swift motion. She offered her help, informed them what she wanted the pilot 01 to do in exchange and they debated things briefly. Trowa, following his nature, was distrustful and preferred to find another way out, but Heero accepted her help and agreed to fight with Zechs. When Trowa offered his Gundam to the black-haired boy and in reply he received, for second time that day, the same surprised exclamation of his name, the sorrow was bittersweet, for it was joined with knowledge, knotting the final thread to the lustrous cloth that had been woven in his heart.  
        'No more anger or mourning', he thought. 'Things between us are what they are. More battles are ahead and the colonies still need this soldier.'  
        And the resounding within his hollow heart altered its melody.  
  
        He missed the different shade in the piercing eyes that kept following his moves for a long time after they took off in Officer Noin's aircraft. The day that was pregnant with change had indeed given birth, but she was carrying twins, and Trowa was ignorant that there were two the newborns who exhaled their first cry into life's hurtful light.  
  
  
  



End file.
